


Skin it

by brokentoy



Category: Stand By Me (1986)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentoy/pseuds/brokentoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The week before Labor Day comes at the crest of a heatwave that year, rolling into town lazily and full of dust.</p><p>(Gordie swims in the pond; Chris joins him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/gifts).



The week before Labor Day comes at the crest of a heatwave that year, rolling into town lazily and full of dust. The sun burns hot in the sky; two lonely clouds, white and with no hints of rain, hang low over the horizon where the dried out land meets the forest, the pines in the distance seemingly the only living thing unaffected by the suffocating air. People in town say this is the hottest summer in the past ten years, and he wonders, somewhat idly, if Denny used to come to the pond too when he was little. If Dad brought him out to fish when the days were stifling, if he taught him how to swim here in these same waters or if it was somewhere else, somewhere down the river where the current wasn’t strong enough to be a danger. He never asked Denny how he learned, but he cherishes the memories of his own lessons, the way his brother encouraged each and every stroke while Mom stayed home and Dad thought Denny was training and not wasting time somewhere with his kid brother.  
   
Sometimes he wonders if his father ever noticed how well he took to it, how effortlessly he dipped into the depths of murky waters, lungs full and head clear as he crossed the distance from shore to shore, breaking the surface in a gasp as Denny smiled at him and timed his progress. He doubts he did, but that doesn’t really matter when he’s never gonna do anything with this. He thinks at times he should; train his body well into the winter, maybe ask his parents to sign him up to the Castle Rock public pool. Put what Denny taught him into something more than just floating on the water under the burning sun, wishing himself away every other minute.  
  
But he never does, never will; his body will never turn into that of an athlete, long legs and skinny arms good for nothing on a field. He thinks, distantly and with that kind of detachment that only comes from turning the same thoughts inside his head for days and weeks and months — four months or twelve years, there’s no difference anymore — that it wouldn’t change anything.  
  
He’ll never be the son his father needs, never be the child his mother’s missing.  
  
The crickets in the distance chirp happily, cicadas joining until some noise — the train crossing over the bridge, a car honking by the road on the other side of the field — will shut them up for a while, and he’s so distracted by their songs he doesn’t feel the water ripple under the weight of another body until Chris is there, breaking the surface with a desperate breath.  
  
They don’t talk as Chris relaxes until he’s floating on his back, too, and Gordie smiles, his arm brushing against Chris’ shoulder, eyes opening to look at him. His surprise dies quickly into the comfortable warmth of the boy at his side, and he wriggles his hands to give himself the illusion of motion. They watch together as the sky above them moves, the two small clouds disappearing further into the distance as the sun climbs higher and higher — reaching its zenith — until his skin starts prickling and he decides he doesn’t want to risk a sunburn a few days before school is set to start. He turns and dips underwater, feet kicking smoothly as he skids over the bottom of the pond; it’s full of algae amidst the mud, and his fingers drag over the bed as he swims to the small wooden dock on the east shore. It’s an old structure in the shadows of a willow, decrepit and bereft of any use since nobody, as far as he remembers, has ever brought a boat into this pond. He likes it.  
  
The wood creaks ominously as he lies down on his belly facing the water; he watches Chris, his body motionless as he soaks up the sun, and Gordie lets his hand fall forward to grace the surface with his fingers.  
  
He wakes up to the press of Chris’ chest against his back — wet and cool and so, so smooth — a shock against his warm skin. His first instinct is to squirm away and stay dry, but he doesn’t, and he lets Chris hug him. The other boy’s arms are strong around his waist, a ticklish touch that makes him laugh and wriggle as he turns around to find Chris there, smiling down at him all golden skin and freckles, droplets of water clinging to his hair and falling down the sides of his face as he leans down to nuzzle closer. His lips are cold against his neck but Chris’ tongue is hot and burning as it travels up to his chin in one long swipe; he rearranges himself between Gordie’s legs, hands coming up to frame his face gently as he finds his lips and licks into his smile. The sun has barely moved above them, but Chris’ body covers his completely and Gordie wraps himself around him, arms and legs trapping Chris as close as possible until they are almost one, their shadows intermingling if they weren’t practically nonexistent in the bright light of early afternoon. They kiss for long moments, Chris biting at his lips gently, soothing them with little sucks that will leave them red and plump and aching like every other time, until he feels Chris’ hands slide down over his hips to grip them, feels him blocking the erratic movements of his own body as Chris rocks against him in a new motion, a rhythm Gordie doesn’t know yet; long hard slides that leave him panting into the open space of Chris’ mouth, flushing up as he feels himself grow warmer, warmer than he was under the sunshine, hotter than the hottest day of summer could ever hope to be. Chris looks at him intently, his eyes wide, brow furrowed like maybe this is new for him too. Judging by the trembling of Chris’ lips, the way his body shakes and his hands clamp down to bruise his sides, Gordie thinks that Chris doesn’t know what’s happening either. It makes him feel safer in a weird way, the both of them in this together even if they don’t know what _this_ is yet. His heart races, his skin feels tight around his bones and he feels his toes curling over the old, wet wood beneath; he can’t look into Chris’ eyes any longer, the burning weight of them too much, leaving him raw and in the open. All he wants to do now, instead, is just crawl out of his body and back into Chris, stay in there forever until he won’t have to face the misery and loneliness of his life anymore.  
  
His body is a long, hard length of tension, rubbing up against Chris greedily, racing into something headfirst but still blindfolded, digging fingers into Chris’ back until he’s sure he’s leaving marks behind and puffing out wet breaths in a vain attempt to let some oxygen into his brain. It doesn’t last long, this moment on the edge seemingly eternal but more like just few minutes in reality, and by the time he feels like something is being pulled from him, forced out of his body in a rolling wave of light and pleasure, he only has time to catch Chris’ eyes again before they kiss, and crash, and possibly die together.  
  
Dying, he thinks fleetingly in one last desperate, lucid moment, wouldn’t be so bad if he died together with Chris, by the water in this summer, right here.  
But then it’s gone — _he's_ gone — and he can’t think anymore.  
  
Later, as he’s having dinner with his parents, he tries not to think about what happened, about opening his eyes to the wonder of Chris’ dazed smile, his lazy kisses and tender touches.  
He tries not to let it all show on his face even though he knows Mom and Dad would never notice, and so he focuses on the radio.  
  
Ray Brower, the deejay says.  
  
Ray Brower, age twelve, has gone missing today.


End file.
